


I'm Alot Like You Were

by TandKadventures



Series: The Metal Menagire [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Robots, Self-Discovery, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TandKadventures/pseuds/TandKadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tigris thought she was finding out more about her mom. But in the process, she found out more about herself then she ever thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Alot Like You Were

**Author's Note:**

> So, I felt like writing this. It's about Tigirs, one of my OCs, and how she built all the robots she has. I am in no way shape or form an expert on robots or electronics or engines of any kind, so the descriptions will be bad and very vague. And yes, Butters, Ralph and JAMES are all based on Dummy, Butterfingers, You and JARVIS from the Iron Man Movies. Deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I should explain the title. I have this idea in my head that I would someday like to make the stories of my OCs into a tv series, and one episode would solely be about how Tigris built the robots. In that episode, I have this idea of a montage of the first three chapters of this being one montage, with little to no words spoken, but with the song "Old Man" by Neil Young playing.

The changes were subtle, but to the people who knew her best, Tigris was starting to get worrying. The bright fire of life that constantly shone behind her technicolor eyes was slowly burning out. Her charm and wit was dulling, and she was passing up opportunities for sarcastic comebacks left and right. What was worse was that her dad and two best friends would catch her normally bright and happy face set in a frown, her shining eyes wet with tears threatening to spill over when she thought no-one was looking. 

Eventually, she broke down, and sobbed into one of her best friend's shoulders, tears staining his shirt and her cheeks. Between choking sobs, she explained what was wrong. 

Tigris' mom had died when Tigris was two months old. Tigris had never missed her mom. How could she? The only knowledge she had of the woman was the patchwork of stories from her father and relatives. But now that she was 13, that changed. Teenage girls needed their mothers, to help with period cramps, to shop for dresses for prom, to cry about hormonally driven emotions, to gossip about cute boys with. But she didn't have that. That sobbing confession was the first time anyone had heard Tigris get mad at her mom's death. All they could do was rub her shoulders and eventually drop the hint to her dad about what was wrong. About why that fire was burning out, fading into barely glowing embers. 

So of course, it was no surprise that her dad eventually dropped the hint to Tigris about the location of her mom's workshop in the house part of the museum. 

Several weeks after her dad told her the location, Tigris found herself needing quiet. The day was particularly busy, and people like to talk in museums. Their collective chatter echoed off the metal and concrete. She felt the panic rise up, and tears threaten to spill over. She sprinted over to the secret tunnels in the walls, and climbed to the sacred location. Noise dulled to a peaceful quiet as the door slightly closed behind her. A small dark curtain covered something on the far wall. She pulled it aside, and sunlight poured in through the tiny slit. Dust collected from 13 years of non-activity danced at the light. Tigris stared around her. The room was round and the floor, ceiling, and walls were all made of metal, and the corners were rounded, so it was like a bubble of metal. The only furniture were whiteboards covered in diagrams, and tons of work tables and benches. Various wires and scrap metal pieces were piling out of crates that were pushed haphazardly under benches and tables. One crate sat on a table, next to a turntable, and was filled with vinyl records of classic rock bands. Tigris noticed the snow of faded, yellow post-it notes. Each one was covered in the type of handwriting that got countless comments of 'you should be a doctor'. But Tigris could read the handwriting, and sat down on a stool to read. She was so absorbed in reading every note that she hadn't even noticed the slit of sunlight dispersing into the darkness of night.


End file.
